


I'll Drink to That

by RenaRoo



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:32:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4239081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenaRoo/pseuds/RenaRoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knew it was coming eventually, but, well, it wouldn’t be Grif and Simmons if it wasn’t preposterous and awkward for everyone involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Drink to That

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/gifts).



> A/N: Encouragement for my ship is the death of me lbr. This is at least 60% the fault of having conversations with goodluckdetective, including wedding ideas for Grif and Simmons so, y’know, going nuts with those…
> 
> Also, no joke, I stole the proposal from my parents’ actual proposal story. Because I understand awkward romance from being a product of the most awkward of romances.

It was one of the times they were in the Warthog because, well, that seemed to be the only way they knew how to mark off their history. Shenanigans in the Warthog, the tales of Grif and Simmons ensued.

Grif was gripping to the steering wheel, particularly concentrating on the road ahead while also not concentrating on anything to do with the road at all. Mostly because he was in one of his usual ranting moods.

“And another thing,” Grif said, scowl firmly in place, “what sense -- as in at _all_ \-- does it make that they send the war heroes out on _patrol?_ War heroes don’t get sent on patrols. We get sent to ceremonies and the Vegas Quadrant. _Patrol._ Patrolling for what?”

“Well, ideally, a war hero gets those things _after_ they help win the war,” Simmons rebutted, leaning his chin onto his fist. He was looking out past the road, though he was as non-invested in the present as Grif was. His concentration was just... on different, more sweat-inducing things. 

His throat felt a little dry. He wished Grif hadn’t taken the last of the canteen for himself. But... then again, perhaps it was Simmons’ mistake for offering it to begin with. It was a gesture of kindness that had been overlooked.

Grif was really good at not reading signals he didn’t want to. Which made Simmons almost break out into hives. Grif could _know_ and never let Simmons _know he knows_ and this entire idea could be stupid.

Well. It was already stupid.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like it was our war to begin with,” Grif grumbled. “And, now that I think about it--”

Not able to take anymore, Simmons turned in his seat and faced Grif directly. “Grif, listen... if I _had_ to patrol with anyone, I just need you to know that I am grateful that it is with you.”

As he probably could have expected, only the hum of the warthog beneath them responded to that.

“Yeah, great,” Grif muttered. “You, too, buddy. I guess.”

Simmons narrowed his eyes, fists clenching. “Grif, that’s not really a good enough response.”

“Simmons!” Grif snapped, finally turning just enough to look at the maroon soldier for a moment before returning his gaze to the road. “What more could you possibly want from me on that one? That came out of nowhere.”

“Not _nowhere,”_ Simmons argued, arms crossing. “We’ve been doing this for a very long time now and I just... I’m frustrated. I’m frustrated because I think I could spend the rest of my life as ‘Grif and Simmons’ and it’s really pissing me off that I don’t know whether or not you feel the same.”

“Jesus Christ, this outburst is out of nowhere,” Grif muttered into the steering wheel. With a sigh, he gave up the facade and pulled off the dirt road, bringing the car to a rest. “Okay, fine. I could do the same,” he said, adjusting to look directly at Simmons.

Blinking, Simmons tilted his head. He could feel the heat raising to his cheeks and ears. “Oh. _Oh.”_ He looked to his hands, twisting them together before looking back up. Quietly, he continued, “Well... _will_ you?”

The silence was far more pronounced without the warthog on. 

Grif’s nose curled. “Did you bring a ring?”

“What?” Simmons responded. “No.”

“You’re proposing to me without a ring?” Grif asked critically.

“You’ve never seemed like a ring kind of person!” Simmons squawked in response. “What is this? A shake down?”

“No, it’s the lamest proposal _in the universe_ from the man who can’t even be bothered to get _a goddamn engagement ring_ ,” Grif responded. But there was still little hesitation between the last of his words and the lock of their lips. 

It made Simmons’ hives calm just the slightest bit.

* * *

Washington was only glad he took the initiative to tell the Blues himself rather than run the risk of having their initial reactions on display for the newly engaged couple.

It probably would have been enough to take the Red and Blue conflict from _simulation_ to _all-out war.  
_

“I fucking knew it,” Tucker crowed. “You know how everyone can tell I knew it? because I called it. I _fucking called it_ in Blood Gulch and then over and over--”

“Despite what you might be inclined to believe for yourself, Tucker,” Wash said, crossing his arms, “this reaction is not exactly a _supportive_ one.”

“What do you mean I’m not supportive?” Tucker demanded, seemingly baffled. “How much more supportive can you be than _knew it before they did_ , dude?”

Wash grimaced. “Not making a spectacle of it for one.”

“I would like to get them a flower,” Caboose said after a long thought.

“That would be very nice of you, Caboose,” Wash said, ignoring the snarking laughter from where Carolina and Church sat.

“Just a single one, Caboose?” Tucker asked. “You might cause their first divorce.”

“Oh, no!” Caboose called out in horror. “Then I’d have to get my gift returned. _They’re not even considerate of the money I spent on them!”_

“Yeah, fuck ‘em,” Tucker agreed.

“Hey, numb nuts!” Church appeared between them, glaring toward Tucker and Caboose. “Stop freaking out over the divorce for the wedding that hasn’t even happened yet!”

“Thank you, Epsilon,” Wash said cautiously, raising a brow. “Though your reaction is surprising.”

“Yeah, I’m still processing things,” the sprite said with a hand wave.

“What, you’re going to act like this wasn’t coming?” Carolina asked, approaching with an easy grin. 

“I didn’t say that. _Exactly,”_ the AI said flippantly. “I just have a huge problem with accepting that Tucker could be right about anything.”

“Hey screw you, dude, I know love when I see it.”

“Yeah, sure thing, Casanova.”

Caboose shuffled his feet. “What am I going to get Grif and Simmons if I don’t get them flowers, though!?”

“Caboose,” Wash began, starting to sound a bit exasperated. He was stopped when Carolina raised her hand and looked at her curiously.

“Caboose,” Carolina said softly, “Would you like to have someone help you shop for a wedding gift?”

The blue soldier grew very serious. “I would like that very much. Oh! Especially if my best friend Church helped.”

“Done,” Carolina said with a nod.

“Say what?” Church squawked. 

* * *

Donut threw the planner on the table -- the binder being so thick and colorful that not only did it shake the table as it was dumped... _but it caused glitter to fly out.  
_

Doc blinked, pulling his knees further into his chest before he poked at the book. 

“Is all of that for the wedding?” Doc dared to ask.

Donut blinked. “Of course it is! How else is a wedding supposed to be planned? I tell you, every last one of you would be lost on this monumentous occasion were it not for my community college hours well spent.”

“I don’t think a few basic level art classes count as a full degree in decorative design, Donut,” the medic said gently. 

The lightish red soldier scoffed. “Who on this planet would be qualified to make that accusation?”

Leaning back in his chair, Doc genuinely thought about it. “Huh. I guess you’re right. I can’t think of anyone.” He shrugged. “I’m sure that’s why Simmons and Grif asked you to be the wedding planner.”

Donut grew that devilish look on his face as he began flipping through the pages.

Doc raised a brow suspiciously. “Donut, they _did_ ask you, didn’t they?”

“They’ll thank us later,” Donut said assuredly. 

Blinking, Doc leaned forward. “Us? What do you mean _us?_ I don’t get involved with your guys’ stuff! Well... I try not to. Things happen. But I don’t really...”

“C’mon, Doc, this is like your _duty_ as a pacifist!” Donut exclaimed, bombastically raising his arms in the air. “Marriage is the exact opposite of war! We’re creating love!”

He sighed in reply. “You’ve obviously never been a _marriage counselor.”_

“Oh you’re going to help me alright,” Donut said assuredly. “You know why? Because I’m asking you and I”m asking you nicely.”

“This is asking nicely, I’ll make sure to take note of that,” Doc sighed. “Do we need a third pair of eyes?”

“Sure, that’s why Lopez is head of construction!” Donut cried out. “Get it? _Head_ of construction--”

“Construction!? Donut, how big is this wedding!?”

Donut’s grin was a mile wide. “As big as they come, Doc. As big as they come!”

* * *

"Sarge, all I’m saying is that I think we’d all just be a little more comfortable if there weren’t _any_ weapons at the ceremony,” Simmons attempted, uneasily wringing his hands. 

“I’m saying you shouldn’t be there at all, just in case,” Grif grunted, arms crossed. He turned more directly to Simmons. “No. Really. Explain to me why you thought it’d be a good idea for him to come.”

“The presence of an approving father figure will help us psychologically in the long run,” Simmons said defensively. “You’ll thank me later.”

“Thank you later?” Grif asked critically. “Think, Simmons, is it _long term_ if there’s high chance that he will strangle me before we leave the... where _are_ we getting this done anyway?”

“I don’t know, ask Donut,” Simmons grunted. “Which, by the way, _that_ is still _your_ bad.”

Grif gave a resigned sigh.

“Now what just a minute,” Sarge grouched, gripping his shotgun as tight as Simmons had ever seen it. “I understand not wanting weapons at your gay wedding--”

“Otherwise known as a _wedding_ , but whatever,” Grif huffed under his breath.

“--but I don’t think of this shotgun as a weapon,” Sarge continued with a moment’s hesitation.

“You... _don’t_ , Sir?” Simmons asked cautiously, looking slightly to Grif who returned the gaze.

“Of course not, Simmons!” Sarge responded. “It’s a way of life. Which will make it the only right decision to bring to your big day. Unless there is no big day. In which case I’ll still bring it. And have it aimed at Grif.”

“Great,” Grif growled.

“Sir, I’m not convinced that’s a good idea,” Simmons pressed. 

“Not to mention, if shotguns are the only weapons allowed at your union,” Sarge continued, “we can officially admit that it’s a shotgun wedding. As that would be the only explanation as to why -- out of all of Red Army -- you picked to lamely propose to Grif.”

“That’s it!” Grif threw up his arms. “I told you, I _told_ you it was going to lead up to a shotgun wedding joke, and you said it wouldn’t. He’s officially not invited.”

Simmons scowled at them both. “Sarge is going! Everyone calm down!”

“Some wedding, we don’t even have anyone officiating yet!” Grif cried out. 

Suddenly, Doctor Grey popped her head in from the hall. “Did someone mention officiating a wedding? Because I certainly hold the licenses for--”

“Of course you do,” Simmons sighed.

* * *

Putting it upon himself to keep track of Caboose and Tucker both had nearly had Wash with one foot in the grave by that point. Making sure Blue team didn’t ruin a wedding and one of the rare times Red Team’s colonel wasn’t looking for loopholes as to why he could restart the fake Red and Blue war was extremely exhausting.

So, when things were said and done and they could _relax_ at the reception. 

... by heading immediately to the bar and not caring one bit about the questionable looks he received when he asked for fruitiest martini they carried. 

Until, well, he happened to look down the bar stools and saw the bright pink -- er, lightish red -- armor of one particular Private Donut.

He stared at the no less than 20 empty glasses around the youngest Red.

“Uh... Donut? Are you... okay?” Wash asked, already feeling slightly dazed.

Donut turned and blinked, foamy mouth igniting into a wide grin. “Oh _hiiiiiiiii,_ Wash! Yeah, oh boy. I’m _so_ glad this is all over. You wouldn’t _believe_ what the stress from all this planning has done to me! My pores have been _completely exhausted.”_

Wash blinked. “Um. Sure.” He rubbed his finger over the coaster to his drink.

“By the way, Wash?” Donut spoke up, causing the Freelancer to look to him. “ _Love_ the grapefruit martini. It’s _adorable.”_

“Hey!” Wash sniffs defensively. “I’ve been stressed out a lot with Caboose and Tucker, alright?”

Donut blinks and snorts, waving for the bartender to give him another beer. “Haha, okay, Wash. Whatever you say. What _ever_ you say.”


End file.
